About to emerge
through a spring-latch door
on to the shopping street,
he suddenly remembers;
her muesli. Where is it?
Wait here, he says,
to his endearingly
dumpy-faced, red-haired,
trusting companion.
In the street, he strides,
retracing footsteps
towards the upper
milkbar on the other side.
But he doesn't need
to go that far.
There the muesli is,
untampered-with,
in its clear plastic sheathing,
sitting on an old postbox.
Now the two walk together,
he announcing this is East Ivanhoe,
she nodding slowly, accepting.
Which way should I now go,
he wonders: past the primary school
or up Robin Hood Road?
They met at work in the office,
only a week ago and now
he's walking her home,
the long way.
Outside his house, the Catalpa,
huge leaves bearing the marks
of autumn; one leaf is emblem
of all seasons, edged deep green,
flecked with orangy-yellow
and thorough crimson at its
heart. See it, he says.
She nods dumbly, she is still
taking in wider matters.
In the front yard, good,
his promised car, is there,
albeit leaf-covered,
nestled under the willow tree.
Bill Wootton
21November 12
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